Page 23

DIMITRI

We move like ghosts through the night, our footsteps barely audible against the cracked asphalt.

The alley behind the Hawthorne Club reeks of old piss and cigarette ash, a place where secrets are traded, and lives end without ceremony.

The streetlamps overhead have an anemic glow, barely illuminating the narrow corridor between the buildings.

We performed this dance many times before.

The spring air holds a bite tonight, carrying the scent of rain that fell earlier in the evening. New York City never truly sleeps, but we are tucked away from the main thoroughfares in a pocket of eerie silence broken only by distant sirens and the occasional drunk stumbling home.

Lev secures the side entrance with expertise, slicing through the club's service alarm with a deft hand and a whisper of wires.

His fingers move with surgical precision, disconnecting and reconnecting circuits until the security system surrenders quietly.

He gives a short nod, confirming our path is clear.

Yuri stands at my side, his massive frame coiled with anticipation and his eyes methodically sweeping the alley for any sign of movement.

Aleksandr positions himself at the corner of the alley, half-shielded by a parked black SUV, watching the service door with the detached calm of a man who has orchestrated far worse operations.

His jet-black hair absorbs the minimal light while his ice-blue eyes gleam with predatory focus.

At thirty-three, my brother has already cemented his reputation as the most ruthless Bratva leader on the East Coast. As head of the Avilov family, he commands respect and inspires terror in equal measure.

“He's in booth seventeen,” Lev whispers, tapping the screen of his burner phone. The blue glow illuminates his face for a moment. “Same as last time. Drink in hand, back to the wall, no guards tonight. Overconfident mudak .”

“Then let us move,” Aleksandr orders, his tone dripping with authority. My brother does not ask or suggest. He commands, and men obey. He uses the same tone that has ordered executions without remorse and negotiated million-dollar deals without flinching.

I’m first through the door.

The kitchen sprawls before us, industrial and utilitarian, with staff long gone for the night.

The scent of old grease and spilled alcohol clings to the air, mixing with cleaning solutions into a uniquely nauseating combination.

Stainless steel surfaces reflect our silhouettes as we sweep through, our boots silent on the tile floor.

Every movement is calculated, and every step is placed with intention.

The hallway beyond leads to the rear of the club.

An exclusive section where privacy commands premium prices.

The booths there are bathed in low blue lighting, and heavy velvet curtains shield patrons from unwanted scrutiny.

The Hawthorne caters to those who require discretion, making it popular with the criminal elite and wealthy businessmen with secrets to keep.

Booth seventeen is situated near the back, partially obscured by an ornamental divider crafted from dark wood and stained glass. Through gaps in the decorative screen, I can see him. Benjamin Petrov. The man who fabricated evidence that put me behind bars.

He casually sits with one leg crossed over the other, nursing a glass of amber whiskey.

His pinstripe suit appears impeccable even in the dim lighting, his signet ring catching blue reflections as he raises his glass.

The smug expression on his face is one I fantasized about shattering during countless sleepless nights in my prison cell.

He never saw us coming.

Aleksandr reached him first, moving with a speed that belied his commanding position.

Most Bratva leaders delegate the dirty work, but my brother has always believed in leading from the front.

With a quick application of pressure to a specific point behind the ear, Petrov slumps forward without making a sound.

Lev catches his body before it hits the table.

At the same time, Yuri positions himself to block any potential view from other patrons.

We are gone in under twenty seconds, leaving only an unfinished drink and rumpled booth cushions.

By the time we load him into the back of the black SUV parked a block away, cuffed and gagged, the street remains undisturbed.

A single drunk stumbles past the alley entrance, never turning his head toward us.

The perfect witness. He is too intoxicated to be reliable, even if he did notice anything unusual.

It is a clean, professional grab that will leave police scratching their heads and filing reports that will eventually gather dust in evidence rooms.

“Drive,” Aleksandr instructs Yuri, who slides smoothly behind the wheel.

The journey to Aleksandr's estate takes forty minutes. We wind through progressively less populated areas until we reach the outskirts of the city.

Security cameras track us, and gates open automatically as we approach.

The grounds spread out around us, immaculate gardens just beginning to bloom in the early spring.

The driveway curves around a central fountain, currently switched off for the night, before delivering us to the rear entrance of the mansion.

Two men emerge silently to assist us, loyal enforcers who ask no questions as they help transport our unconscious cargo to the basement.

We call it the dungeon. It’s built from damp stone and old despair, but it has been modernized with certain amenities that suit our purposes.

The walls are solid stone, three feet thick.

There are no windows. Instead, there is a hidden staircase, which is the only way in or out.

It is a place where truths are extracted, not freely given.

Petrov wakes up secured to a chair bolted to the center of the room, blood already dried along his temple from where Aleksandr had dropped him during transport. His expensive suit is rumpled and stained, the careful facade of power stripped away.

Overhead, a single bright light illuminates every detail of his face. The walls are bare concrete, the air still and crisp.

I lean against the far wall, arms crossed over my chest, watching his eyes flutter open.

The moment awareness returns is always fascinating to observe.

It begins with brief confusion, followed by a sudden, crushing realization of the situation.

Fear blooms across Petrov’s features with satisfying speed.

“Good evening,” Aleksandr greets, circling the chair with measured steps.

He removed his jacket, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to reveal powerful forearms. His voice carries the polite tone of a host greeting a dinner guest, making the situation all the more unnerving.

“I assume you are wondering where you are.”

Petrov squirms against his restraints, the gag muffling his panicked questions. Lev steps forward and rips the cloth away with unnecessary force. Petrov coughs violently, his breath coming in ragged gasps, panic visibly taking hold of him.

“You have made a grave mistake,” he rasps, attempting to sound confident despite his trembling voice. “You cannot touch me. I am protected.”

“Protected?” I echo, pushing myself away from the wall and stepping into the pool of light. “By whom? Morozov?”

His mouth snaps shut, sweat beading on his forehead.

“You framed me,” I continue, controlling my voice. “You sold your soul to a man with none of his own. I want names. Dates. Everything.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Petrov pleads, his eyes darting between me and Aleksandr. “He would have killed me.”

I crouch in front of him, bringing our faces level, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath mingling with the acrid scent of fear.

“Start talking,” I say quietly, “or you will wish he had.”

Aleksandr moves to stand behind me, adding to the psychological pressure.

My brother has long perfected the art of silent intimidation.

He can fill a room with menace without speaking a single word.

His blue eyes hold the cold detachment of a man deciding whether someone will live to see the sunrise.

Petrov breaks quicker than I had anticipated.

Thirty minutes later, we have enough information to destroy Russo and dismantle half of Morozov's operation.

Petrov spilled everything. The doctored recordings, the falsified testimony, the bank accounts in offshore havens, the cash delivered in unmarked envelopes, and the names of corrupt officials on Morozov's payroll.

“You provided Russo with the falsified files?” Aleksandr asks, his voice deceptively casual as he places a silver lighter on the metal table beside various implements none of us have yet needed to use.

“Yes,” Petrov nods frantically. “But it was Morozov’s idea. I had to do it. I had no choice!”

Aleksandr smiles, a cold, predatory expression that fails to reach his eyes. “Morozov is about to discover what it feels like to fall from a great height.”

Lev and Yuri exchange glances across the room. Morozov's days are clearly numbered.

But the next revelation from Petrov turns my blood to ice.

“There is something else,” he whispers, his gaze shifting toward me.

“Something you should know. Morozov...he was furious when you were released. Your imprisonment was supposed to be permanent. You were meant to die there, Dimitri. When the charges failed to hold and you walked free, he modified his plan.”

“What plan?” My voice sounds foreign, even to my own ears.

Petrov hesitates, looking as though he is calculating whether this information might somehow save him. Aleksandr steps forward and places a firm hand on Petrov's shoulder, fingers digging into pressure points that make the man wince in pain.

“My brother asked you a question,” Aleksandr says softly. “It would be impolite not to answer.”

Then, in one desperate breath, Petrov says, “He is going after your child.”

The room goes completely still.

“Explain yourself,” I roar.

“Morozov wants to make you suffer. He knows about your woman. About the baby. He has placed people to watch her movements. The plan is to cause her to lose the child. Then he will have her killed. Very slowly.”

The silence that follows seems endless. My hands curl into fists so tight I can feel my nails cutting into my palms. I can’t breathe properly, and I’m unable to move. Sandy's face fills my mind. Her fiery hair, her warm smile, and the beautiful curve of her stomach where our child is growing.

For the first time in years, I see something like genuine concern flash across my brother's typically impassive features.

Lev curses loudly, turning away and dragging a hand through his hair in agitation.

I step forward and seize Petrov by the throat, my fingers pressing into his windpipe with enough force to make his eyes bulge.

“You will tell me everything,” I growl, leaning close. “Every name. Every safehouse. Every route. Every detail of his surveillance on her. If you lie, if you hesitate for even a moment, I swear on our father's grave, I will make you bleed out on this floor while you beg for death.”

He nods frantically, choking, desperate for air. I release my grip, and he collapses forward as far as his restraints will allow, gasping like a man who has nearly drowned.

The light above swings slightly from my sudden movements, creating long, undulating patterns across the concrete floor.

“You do not get to die today,” I inform him, my voice terrifyingly calm. “But before this night is over, you will certainly wish that you had.”

Aleksandr places a hand on my shoulder. “We will handle this. No one touches our family. No one threatens what is ours.” His voice holds the absolute certainty of a man accustomed to dealing death sentences. “Morozov has signed his own death warrant.”

For thirty minutes, I stand alone in the hallway outside the basement door, the cold seeping through the concrete walls, penetrating my core.

Aleksandr has walked away. His part was done.

Now it’s Lev’s turn to extract the truth, one brutal detail at a time, about Morozov’s network and the surveillance on Sandy.

My mind conjures her image without mercy. Her voice when she laughs, the softness of her skin under my fingertips, and the gentleness in her eyes when she placed my hand on her stomach and told me I was going to be a father.

That child is mine. That future is mine. That happiness belongs to me after years of blood, violence, and sacrifice.

And Morozov wants to tear it all away.

This isn’t the first time Morozov has targeted her, but it’s different. Morozov's plans to have me killed in prison failed. Now, he’s escalating, targeting not just Sandy but our unborn child. He wants to destroy everything I love before destroying me.

I push myself away from the wall and head for the stairs. The house above is quiet. Most of the staff have retired for the night, leaving only security personnel to move silently through their rounds.

Aleksandr is waiting for me in his office, a glass of vodka in his hand, another poured and waiting on the desk.

“She will be protected,” he insists as I enter, not bothering with preliminaries. “I have already dispatched additional men to supplement your team.”

I nod, taking the offered drink and draining it in one swallow. The alcohol burns a path down my throat, a welcome distraction from the cold rage building inside me.

“This ends now,” I spit. “Morozov has been a problem for too long. It is time for him to disappear.”

Aleksandr’s smile is chilling. “I have something special planned for our friend Morozov. Something that will send a message to anyone else who might consider targeting the Avilov family.”

“And Russo?” I ask.

Aleksandr nods, his eyes reflecting the same murderous intent I feel. “His disrespect cannot continue. He will be taken care of.”

I pour myself another drink, staring into the clear liquid. “I want to be the one to end Morozov. For Sandy and my child.”

“As is your right,” Aleksandr agrees. “Family is everything, brat. ”

Aleksandr might be ruthless and feared throughout the New York City criminal underworld, but his loyalty to blood has never wavered. The Avilov family stands together, always. It is our strength and our salvation in a world that offers neither.

“Get some rest,” he advises.

I leave him there, making my way to Sandy and our bedroom. Outside, rain begins to fall again, pattering softly against the windows. New life is everywhere this season. Buds on trees, flowers pushing through the soil, and the child growing inside Sandy. A life that I will protect at any cost.

I have a war to win. And it starts tonight.